


He Wears A White Hood

by jesse_panic



Series: Tales of a Fractured Creed [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed 3 - Fandom, Assassin's Creed III - Fandom
Genre: Fractured Fairy Tale, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesse_panic/pseuds/jesse_panic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fractured fairy tale retelling of part of the story of Assassin's Creed III. After hearing the story of Red Riding Hood as a child, its imagery continues to haunt Connor in his later life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Wears A White Hood

**Author's Note:**

> This contains major spoilers for the climax of Sequence Eleven of Assassin's Creed III.

The little girl in the story wore red. He thought that was strange, because he knew she was from a different culture, where the color red had a different meaning. Even as a child, he could feel the distance between his world and her’s, radiating off the story through his mother’s words as she sat by him that night.

He didn’t know why she had told him this story, or why she had chosen this night to tell him of something other than the familiar stories which he loved, but he did not question it; for the story filled his head with fantastic visions. He was so struck by the idea of the girl, small and lonely and not used to the forest like he was, walking in alone with the promise of nothing but a familiar face to greet her once she reached her destination. In his mind, the girl would cross mountain paths to see her family again, to make sure that they were safe. But why was she clad in red? Red was a foolish color to wear in the forest, she would be seen by the wild animals, and the people might think her strange, bloodthirsty, somehow no longer innocent. In his child’s mind the connection between the cape and the girl’s isolation was made. Perhaps that was why she was willing to brave the forest in search of her grandmother; perhaps there was no other to offer her kindness or succour because she wore red.

That night he had a wonderful dream. He thought perhaps it was the story playing tricks on him- refusing to leave his head- but whatever it was, he did not tell his mother or his friends, because he knew that they would somehow not understand. He dreamt that he was walking through the forest. Except, the further he went, the stranger it became. It was dark and gray and the trees blurred together and merged with each other and became great branchless trees of metal and stone. And he was alone, and he was frightened. And he was wearing red. But then, he turned the corner, and saw him. He knew it was him. Perhaps it was just his imagination’s version of him, or perhaps some gossamer memory from when he was too young to know how to hold onto it in his waking mind, but it was him: his father.

There he was; steady and reassuring in dark heavy clothes with a faint smile. He was safety in the metal forest. He had been waiting for him on bended knee, and then Ratonhnhaké:ton knew why he had braved the forest. As he ran up to his open arms, he understood. He felt the secure weight of the thickly gloved hands against his back as he was borne into the air as if it were real, heard the faint satisfied sigh as if his father’s head was really leant against his neck. Heard his words, “I’ve got you,” in a voice so clear and so different to any he could have created himself he felt sure that this man was not a fiction but a memory. And he felt that he would cross forests worse than this to see his family again.

*

He wore a white hood. The journey into Fort George had been long and arduous, and he was tired and injured. But he had to keep on. He had to find him. Through the maze of wood and metal and stone he tracked him to what would be one of their final resting places, and finally, he saw him again. This was perhaps the third time he had met him in his life, and only the second that he could remember, yet there was something very wrong, but could feel it. It was almost as if the man from his dream was standing before him, but he was somehow twisted. He could almost feel the weight of the corruption that time had wrought on this man. His voice was faintly reminiscent of the reassuring murmur of his childhood fantasy, but it had lost its comfort and instead rang sharp and clear and cold through their battleground. His eyes were no longer dark and soft, but had a steel in them which recognised neither sympathy nor pity. His hands were still begloved, but they were not relaxed and open, but tensed in righteous ire and twitching towards his weapons. And his mouth was not smiling, nor did it look like it had in a long time. He faced the mortal engagement with his son with his lips set in a grim, unflinching, impassive line.

But Ratonhnhaké:ton had no time to reminisce about foolish childhood delusions. He had no patience for an imagined father from an ideal world. Ratonhnhaké:ton was Connor now; and it was his duty to take up his tomahawk and hack and slash and strike at this monster before him until there was nothing left.

After the deed was done, and he had shouldered his weapon, to his surprise he found himself caught in his fantasy once more. Just fleetingly, he wondered if with the monster dead, his father- the man he had once thought a memory- would remerge from the belly of the beast in his last moments, to validate the hopes of a child long lost in the forest. But life was not a fairytale, and as Connor stood over the dying man and heard his last words he knew this. There was no happy ending, no family, no wolf, no righteous violence. Just all that was and all that Haytham Kenway ever could be; a mixture of achievements and failures of a man and nothing more, as murky as the waters that now logged the body his spirit had vacated.

Connor Kenway left the fort wearing a white hood. He thought that was strange; because his robes were hewn in a foreign fashion, where the color white had a different meaning. And there was nothing pure about what he was.

*

**

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of fractured fairy tales I'll be writing set in the Assassin's Creed II and III universe. Any constructive feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Thank you for reading this.


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